It's First Thursday, and sharply dressed residents stand in the lobby of the Burlington Tower apartments, nibbling fancy Polynesian appetizers and drinking from an open bar at the building's monthly private party.

The feast and conversation are welcome after a long workday for the business executives, lawyers and other well-heeled tower residents.

Outside, Richard Littledyke stands in the rain, grinning. He greets tenants by name and listens to their family news, complaints about the traffic and tales of recent vacations.

Before residents walk through the door to the party inside, Portland's only doorman welcomes them home.

Privy to private lives Littledyke, a tall, fair-skinned blonde of 28 years, has held doors open for Burlington residents for eight months. The previous doorman, Auggie Contreras, reluctantly vacated the position for a higher-paying bellhop gig at the Nines Hotel.

The naturally friendly, approachable Littledyke fell quickly into the new role. Residents in the 10-floor building say he knew their names after one or two meetings.

"It comes with the territory to know everybody," he says as he walks through the party. "There's Steve ... there's Kevin ... there's Tony."

"Hey Richard! What's going on, man?" a younger resident calls out.

"Not much. How's it going?" Littledyke responds.

The Burlington Tower is Portland's only residential building with a doorman. Other apartments have concierges and several hotels have bellhops at the front doors, but Littledyke is unique. Visitors to the area often use him as a landmark to find their parked car.

Though he rarely spends more than a few moments each day with Burlington Tower residents, Littledyke is privy to details they might not share with even family members.

"I'm not much of a gossip, but I know so much about these people," he says.

He has memorized their favorite delivery places and online shopping habits. He knows where they send their dry cleaning and what time they leave for work. He has been bored to death by recitations of grocery lists and amused to no end by tales of marital squabbles and rowdy bar nights gone awry.

And although he makes a point not to pry, Littledyke suspects he has opened the door for a few prostitutes and drug dealers, too.

Of course Littledyke would never divulge the details. He says there's an unspoken vow of secrecy between doormen and residents.

The same agreement stipulates that he rarely shares details of his life with residents. Contreras, his predecessor, says the isolation was sometimes hard to manage.

"It did get very lonely," he says. "Not having that camaraderie became very difficult."

No doorman culture If he lived in New York, Chicago, or another city where doormen are common, Littledyke would have plenty of comrades. New York doormen are so ubiquitous they belong to a union with tens of thousands of members. They receive regular newspaper coverage and are the subject of a 2005 book by the former chair of Columbia University's sociology department.

Bearman chuckled at the notion of a city with only one doorman. New York's doormen's union leader was baffled.

"I know Portland isn't as big as New York City, but it's amazing to me that there's only one," said Kyle Bragg, vice president of New York's SEIU Local 32BJ.

Both men said Portland's lack of doormen probably comes down to the city's size, age and housing stock.

In Portland, where far fewer people are cramped into limited space, people with extra money achieve status with a nice house and a well-groomed yard, Bearman says. New York's cramped real estate requires doormen to serve the same purpose.

"They are tied into how to create elegance and luxury in apartment buildings, where space is limited," Bearman says. "They also provide a bridge between the outside and the inside of a building that a yard serves to provide in a house."

At one time a smaller, younger New York probably only had one doorman, Bragg said. And like The Burlington, a building with expensive rent is probably where the trend began.

"They grew as part the city's evolution," he said, becoming common throughout upper-class neighborhoods before branching into areas with more moderate rents. Likewise, The Burlington Tower's doorman could be the first of many in Portland.

Worth the money, but making little But for now, Littledyke exists as a novelty.

"We were just having (a doorman) for Christmas and everybody loved it so much they said, 'Please can we keep him?'" says Tonya Hobbs, manager at the Burlington Tower. "We did, and it definitely sets us apart."

On the job, Littledyke is the picture of class in an old-style driving cap, a long black coat with gold buttons and white gloves, but his real life is far removed from the Burlington way.

He makes $10 per hour to stand outside the building from 5 until 10 p.m., Wednesday through Sunday. Hobbs says the cost is factored into rent, which averages between $1,400 and $4,500 per month.

The cheapest apartments in the Burlington cost about four times Littledyke's rent for a shared house in North Portland.

"We definitely can't afford a doorman," he says.

Burlington Tower residents say the extra expense is well worth the sense of safety and warmth Richard provides.

"Living downtown can be kind of like living in a hotel," says Chris Jones, 27, who moved into Burlington Tower nearly three months ago with his wife, Lauren, 26. "With Richard there, it makes it feel a little more homey. Like a stay-at-home mom."

A valuable resource Contreras stayed on the job for three years before Littledyke took over, replacing the former's signature hat tip with an easygoing demeanor that makes residents want to be his friend.

"I never really feel like it's work," Littledyke says of the gig. "I feel kind of invited into that community."

Littledyke's main role is being a friendly face for returning residents. Other duties include hailing cabs, accepting residents' dry cleaning and welcoming guests when someone hosts a party. He's also an honorary security guard, a title he takes seriously despite the area's low crime rate.

"I'd seen the guy walking in the neighborhood before," he says, but didn't witness the crime.

Perks of the job As the hours grow later, Littledyke's interactions with residents subside. At night he's left to guard the door, occasionally stepping inside to warm up by the lobby fireplace.

The second half of his shift can get pretty dull.

"It's just me standing here, looking at drunks and teenagers," he says.

Boredom, sociologist Bearman says, is a signature aspect of the job.

"Long hours of just standing there can be brutal, but the boredom is the cost of doing business," he says.

Luckily for Littledyke, occasional visits from tenants break up the monotony.

He stopped bringing lunch a while ago. There was no need, because nearly every night a resident comes downstairs with a hot plate of home-cooked food. Usually it's delicious, but occasionally Littledyke becomes the garbage disposal for a culinary experiment gone awry.

Residents have given him tickets to Blazers games and other events, and at Christmas he got an income boost from holiday tips. He's hoping this year, now that residents have gotten to know him, the tips will be more generous.

"The more you do for someone, then the more they want to do for you," he says.

Littledyke dates a fellow swing shifter, so the uncommon hours don't inconvenience his personal life. Aside from a part-time gig teaching music at a Portland charter school, his days are free. Often he spends them in the Pearl District, wandering the streets near the Burlington Tower or eating in a nearby restaurant. He almost always gets recognized.

"I would never know any of these people without working here," he says. "My job is kind of my claim to fame. I'm the doorman of the Pearl District."